


Fly

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Fatherhood, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven fathers.</p>
<p>Seven children. </p>
<p>Pain, grief, fear, pride, rage, joy, love.</p>
<p>Vignettes on the intricacies of fatherhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fly

_i – pain_

When Stannis was seven years old, Robert fell ill and was confined to his bed. Cassana helped the maester to tend him and so, for several evenings, Steffon had his youngest son brought to his chambers for a quiet dinner with just the two of them.

One such evening, Steffon just happened to ask the boy what he had been learning that day.

“Maester Cressen told me to read about some of the old Baratheons. He was too busy with Robert to teach me.”

“And what did you find out?” Steffon nodded encouragingly. It wasn’t often that he found much to discuss with the boy, but Stannis loved to learn just like his mother did and could always be prompted to talk about it.

Stannis murmured something, too quiet to catch and he went bright red, unable to meet his father’s eye.

“Say that again, son.”

“I like Ser Lyonel Baratheon,” Stannis whispered, “He’s my favourite. I want to fight like him.”

Steffon nodded and smiled, patting the boy’s hand, “A worthy dream.”

Stannis managed a small tight smile and turned back to his plate. Steffon tried to keep the pity from his face as he watched his dear son, small shoulders carrying too big a weight for one so young.

Because Steffon was not sure that he had ever heard anything so sad as the idea that his serious little boy wanted nothing more than to be like a knight who had been nicknamed ‘The Laughing Storm’. And the worst thing was that Stannis knew how sad it was too.

_ii – grief_

Jorah looked like a Mormont. He could growl like a Mormont. He was as stubborn and bull-headed as a Mormont. But, as he got older, Jeor began to notice that his boy was growing into a young man who liked to laugh, who had a clumsy kind of gentleness and a heart that was almost too big for him. A heart that would get him into trouble one day. In short, he was growing into a young man who was, in many ways, like his dear mother. She died when her son was only eight but by the gods, was Jorah like her. He was Mormont in all the ways that mattered but he was like her in all the ways that Jeor had loved about her. 

And Jeor loved his son, he really did, but when the chance came to leave the ghosts behind, he took it.

He ran away.

He left when his son just when he needed him the most, just when Jorah needed a strong word and a guiding hand to stop him doing something stupid. But Jeor left and for a long time he didn’t look back. Same old Mormont bull-headedness. It would be the end of them all one day. 

When word came about Jorah’s exile, it seemed as though that end had really begun.

 

_iii – fear_

Gone. He’d been gone for hours, escaped when Maester Luwin’s back was turned, and no one had seen him since. Robb and Jon and Theon were out in the forest searching for him and Bran was up on the rooftops with Jory just in case he’d got up there. Cat had helped for a while but now she was distraught, Sansa sitting with her and holding her hand. The whole castle was searching now but it had been hours before anyone even knew he was gone. 

Arya darted in front of him and ran down the crypt steps, intent on her search. 

“Rickon?” she called, “Come on. Come out now.”

Ned felt sick, sick to the pit of his stomach. He’d never been more afraid than he was now, not even when he thought that he was going to his death in battle. There was honour in battle. This was just fear.   
His hands shaking, he found his feet carrying him to the Godswood. It would do no good, not this time, but he didn’t know what else to do. He knelt in front of that old familiar tree and pressed his forehead to the ground.

“Please,” he choked, “Let him be safe. I’m begging you. Let him be safe.”

“Da!” 

He didn’t have time to think before a small body, which had apparently been sitting in the branches of the tree he was praying to, launched itself into his arms. Rickon seemed none the worse for his adventure.

Ned pressed his face into the boy’s hair so that he wouldn’t see his father’s tears.

 

_iv – pride_

They laughed at her, the squires and the stable boys and even some of his knights.

They laughed at his daughter because she was taller than them, because she was clumsy and didn’t like to wear dresses. They thought they knew her, knew who she was and what she would become. The knights who laughed didn’t last long.

Lord Selwyn knew who his daughter was. 

Brienne had blue eyes, large and expressive, as blue as the sapphires after which their home was named.   
She was the kindest child he had ever known, so quick to share what she had with those who had none.   
She was clever and gentle and quick on her feet once you put a sword in her hand and strong. 

So strong. Strong in her mind as well as her body. Stronger at the tender age of eleven than Lord Selwyn suspected he would ever be able to be and she was only getting stronger as time went on. The boys who mocked her called her ‘beauty’, meaning it as an insult.

Lord Selwyn thought that if they realised how apt that nickname actually was, they would stop.

 

_v – rage_

“But why must they be allowed to get away with it?”

Tywin drew himself up to his full height – all five feet of it – and stared his father in the eye.

“Because words cannot hurt, my boy, words cannot hurt,” Tytos said gently, using the voice that sometimes soothed his volatile son, “And we need them here more than they need us.”

“But they are common hedge knights!” Tywin spat, his pale face flushing, “There are always more of them sniffing around. They insulted you, Father! I heard them!”

“All knights speak badly of their lord at some time or another, Tywin,” Tytos reached for his goblet and gazed gently at his ten year old heir. Tywin meant well, he really did, but he needed to understand that sometimes a bigger man took something on the chin rather than starting a war over it.

“But they do it all the time!”

“Tywin-”

“It might not cause you any grief, Father, but it does me! Have you no shame?”

“TYWIN!”

The boy flinched slightly. Tytos rarely shouted at him, rarely even raised his voice, and he immediately felt ashamed. Tywin only wanted what was best for their family. He was of Lannister blood alright. 

“Tywin-”

“I am sorry, Father,” the boy said stiffly, bowing sharply and hurrying out of the room. 

“Tywin-”

The door slammed shut behind him.

 

_vi – joy_

All four of his children were perfect. 

Just perfect.

Willas would be his strong right hand one day, sharp as a pin and quick to learn, just like his grandmother. The perfect heir.

Margery was his heart, his beautiful and loving girl who would have every boy in the kingdom after her just as soon as she was old enough to be noticed. The perfect daughter.

Loras, the baby, was his hero in training. The great commander who would lead armies and lay waste to enemies and never even blink in the face of fear. The perfect knight.

And Garlan? 

Garlan was his joy. His boy, who loved to laugh and who hung on every word he said, who followed him around from the moment he could keep up and who always had a question and who was always ready to listen to the answer.

Garlan was Mace Tyrell’s joy and he had never minded who knew it.

 

_vii – love_

“Do you think it matters?”

“Does what matter?”

Doran Martell shifted slightly in his seat and adjusted his careful hold on the precious bundle cradled in his arms. Arianne slept, her tiny face so peaceful that it took his breath away.

“That we married for love,” he murmured, “That she is a product of love rather than duty.”

“I don’t know,” his wife turned in her bed and gazed at him, “Do you think it matters?”

“I don’t think it matters now,” he said, “I think it might matter one day. If she ever asks. If she ever looks to us to set an example of love and what love can be. Then it might matter.”

“Then we are safe for a while longer,” the princess smiled, leaning over and kissing his forehead, “I am going to sleep for a time.”

“Of course.”

He left the room with the babe and walked the corridors, the cool breeze of the evening sweeping through the open doors, and as he walked he thought about this little person who was now dependent on him and his eyes misted over as he looked down at her.

“You are a product of love,” he whispered, “And perhaps that means you will never truly suffer the pains of it. I hope you never do.”

Arianne opened her eyes and looked up at him, just for a moment, before she went back to her quiet slumber.


End file.
